


Better make it count

by Wallagen



Category: Kirby (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Desert, Gunslinging, Soulselling Bastards guarenteed, Wild West - Totally Canon ™
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:13:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24261142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallagen/pseuds/Wallagen
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	Better make it count

The wind blew harshly across the scorching dunes of the desert landscape. The deadly heat waves tore across the arid atmosphere, grilling anything foolish enough to dare challenge the sands. So no-one did. No one, except one man. 

He had no horse. In fact, there were no horses on this planet. It’s actually pretty weird. Biodiversity is flourishing here, so nothing resembling a horse, or a donkey is somewhat str- you know what, never mind, forget about the horses entirely. Fauna of the equine variety is not a mandatory requirement for a standard ecosystem.

What he had was a hat, shielding his head from the great fireball in the sky, a poncho, not sure why, but he got it for free from some guy who couldn’t get them sold, and all his six pistols, all loaded for what was to come. He squinted his eyes, setting his sights on his destination. A run down, no name, backwater town in the middle of nowhere, just in a spitting distance. That is, if you could spit at distances over half a kilometer. He scoffed, although his journey had already been long, there was at least half an hour’s worth of travelling to that city. Swallowing a lump of spit and bile, he pressed onwards.

\--- 7 MINUTES LATER ---

He arrived with the sun at his back and death in his eyes. Sizing up the city, he raised an eyebrow when the tumbleweed revealed themselves from the alleys, blowing across the main road that ran through the gods-forsaken place. The breeze that carried them was arid and dry, making his silvery locks wave in the wind like crops in a field. Few people were out, only a fistful of locals and a handmaiden sweeping the flooring of the wooden entrance to the town’s tiny saloon. He sized the building up. Two stories, newly painted sign, odor of liquor and piss. “Perfect,” he thought. Maybe he could stock up on water here, if he was lucky. 

Entering the hub of the city, he shoved open the two saloon doors with such vigor that they bounced back from the hinges. He caught them again, stance unchanged. Slowly making his way over to the counter, he locked eyes with the establishment’s owner, who then proceeded to move behind the desk. 

“Jug of water. Two cubes.” The bartender, sporting one hell of a mustache, shook his head.

“Fresh out of ice, sir.”

“Then two jugs.”

The bartender nodded, then ducked behind the counter and pulled out a large glass. They then went into a side room and came back with the two jugs and a large canister. Putting the jugs on the table, they opened the canister and started pouring water in them. Whilst doing this, they struck up a conversation with their mysterious customer. 

“You’re Floralian then. What brings a skyder like you out here in the sands?”

He ignored the remark on his origin, quenching his thirst with his drink. He slammed the glass down on the counter with a harsh clang, relishing in how the water rehydrated his sore throat. Clearing it, he replied to his question.

“I’m looking for the man who tries to call himself ‘The Masked Shadow.’”

The unmistakable sound of wooden swing doors colliding with its frame rung out in the rest of the saloon, followed by creaking hinges that announced the presence of a new party. And there he was. The good-for-nothing scumbag of a soul seller was standing in the doorframe, much to Taranza’s chagrin. Dark Meta Knight might not have been very tall, but he was an intimidating guest to be sure. Immediately, he spotted the lone arachnid, glaring at him over a shoulder. Taranza put his glass down.

“wll f t sn’t th lttl rnt hmslf. Yrr lrkng fr smn?”

He did not understand a word of what he just said. He never could. The masked bastard was always completely unintelligible due to his ridiculous headgear. Nevertheless, he knew from first-sixhanded experience how dangerous this man was. Accompanying the soul-selling, slithering son of a bitch were three underlings of mediocre statue and notability. Their clothing was spiffy and clean, their belts were shiny and their boots were polished. One of them sported one hell of a mustache. Taranza didn’t care or recognize any of them. Lackies fell like flies out here. 

“No, I didn’t expect to see you here. But if I had known that you’d been here, I would’ve have travelled all this way out here in the middle of nowhere much sooner.”

Finishing his glass, he fished a fiver out of his pockets and slammed it on the wooden counter. He then got out of his bar chair and stood face to mask with his adversary. His eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed, and his hat tilted downwards. They stared each other down. This was the encounter he had been searching for for months. He had to concentrate and quell his disgust. Emotions could not get in the way when a man had to die this much. Taking a mental breath, he spoke up.

“Let’s take this outside. This floor is too nice for your blood to stain it.”

The company that Dark Meta Knight had brought shared smug glances with themselves. The tension in the saloon was thicker than the yoghurt oatmeal Taranza had scarfed down for breakfast. Eventually, after forty whole seconds of unblinking glaring, Dark Meta Knight turned around and walked out of the establishment, his pawns following suit. Taranza shot a glance at the barkeeper. “Keep it cold.” He told him, before flipping another fiver in his direction and heading outside. 

Stepping outside, he held onto his hat as an arid wind blew in from the west. The goons of The Shadow had taken to the sidelines across the street, taking a spectator’s role with wicked and amused grins painted on their scraggy faces. Infront of them stood the criminal himself, waiting for Taranza to step on to the street. Taranza, however, would not give him the delight of a single step, because he didn’t have any feet. The two opponents locked eyes. As the Floralian floated down the staircase, Dark Meta Knight started pacing towards the right, Taranza pacing to the left to match. The metallic click of Dark Meta Knight’s heavy boots reverberated throughout the town for every step he took, Taranza’s steps remaining mute because he still didn’t have feet. Dark Meta Knight raised his eyebrow mockingly, unbeknownst to everyone because he was wearing a mask.

“prtt bld mv, brt. r y srr r nt gnn cr lk lst tm trr?”

Much like the movement of his facial features, the words he spoke also remained a mystery. But Taranza would not let a potential insult or a threat go unretorted, assumptious as he may had to be to make one.

“I know. But I’m killing you for the world, not just for me.”

They both stopped, perfectly in the middle of the road. The silhouette of his enemy basked in the evening sun, casting his irreverent shadow across the dirty street. The spider’s eyes narrowed, now was the time to focus. Though he had decided that this was going to be their last duel, it was certainly not their first, and Taranza knew well how this degenerated played. Beyond being a piece of shit, Dark Meta Knight was also an illusionist. Using his inherent power as a dark reflection of a better man, Dark Meta Knight was able to manipulate the way light refracted off him and hide his movement. To the blind eye, it would seem as if the shadowy desperado would be totally motionless, until a bullet was fired, and another life was lost at the hands of evil. Taranza, however, had already figured out the trick behind the gimmick from a previous encounter with the outlaw, that had resulted in quite the bloody shootout, one that he had barely made it out. The trick lied in Dark Meta Knight’s own shadow. Although he appeared totally still, his shadow still reflected his true movements, giving away exactly when he would go for his gun. This wasn’t going to be easy, Taranza thought. First his attention would have to be bolted to the ground, checking for any subtle or sudden changes in the silhouette. He would then need to have both the faster reflexes, as well as the quicker draw. 

His other obstacle was that ridiculous metal mask. As much as he detested how absolutely imbecilic it looked, Taranza would be foolish not to respect its width and sturdiness. Covering the entirety of his front body, it essentially doubled as a shield. A bullet might put a hole in it, but there was little chance it would do enough to put the bastard down. If he was going to kill him, Taranza would have to aim for that mail slot of an opening, where the golden eyes of The Masked Shadow peeked out. Not only would he need to exercise surgical precision for this, but he would essentially have to do it blindly if his attention was laser focused on his enemy’s shadow. A single drop of sweat rolled down his cheek. He was starting to doubt if he could do this. Taranza took a deep breath, he was out of time. This was it. The showdown he had been searching a year for. 

And it would be over in less than a second. 

He leaned forward, tilting his hat downwards to shield his eyes as not to give away where he was looking. His eyes fell to the shadow, expanded and distorted from how low the sun was hanging. It was then that he realized that the size of the shadow meant that he couldn’t keep track of both of Dark Meta Knight’s hands at the same time. He cursed under his breath, gritting his teeth. Despite their numerous encounters, he had never payed attention to which hand Dark Meta Knight used predominantly. It would have to come down to a gamble, the left or the right one. He steeled himself, running mental calculations and setting an angle where he would aim. Then came the waiting phase. The grating, torturous seconds that each lasted a century kept tallying up as neither duelist made a move. He pressed his concentration not to falter, though his breathing still accelerated. It was when he felt a droplet at his chin that he realized that he was sweating bullets. More than one of those would be nice right now, he supposed. He felt as if he was being choked by the blood rushing through the veins of his throat, as his ears were deafened by the sound of his own heart pulsating so roughly it was close to exploding. Only his eyes and mind stayed perfectly still, calmly waiting for the moment where Dark Meta Knight’s shadow would make its closing movement.

…

…

…

There.

Taranza immediately ripped his gun out of the holster and aimed forwards. The silence was killed as the sound of a single gunshot exploded, reverberating throughout the whole town and far beyond its edges. The only sound that accompanied the fading echo was the metallic clink of a shell hitting the ground, bouncing between pebbles. He took a heavy breath once, then twice. Then realized he was still breathing. Looking up hastily, he let out a massive sigh of relief at the sight in front of him. He had won. 

Further down the street, the body of his adversary had fallen over and into the dirt, squirming in pain. As the adrenaline that had been coursing through his veins petered out and his senses returned, he noticed that his gun-hand had been shaking, and still was. Taranza clenched his five other fists, forcing his nerves to calm. A useful skill to tutor yourself in. His eyes narrowed again, moving forward towards the downed renegade. They still had a final conversation to have. 

“Well, it finally came to this, then.” Said Taranza as he approached the man in the dirt. “Now tell me what I want to hear.” he said, pointing the smoking pistol towards his bleeding enemy. Dark Meta Knight squirmed, barely hanging on to what little life he had left as he spoke:

“mfrrrrrrrrr yw gt m. yw wn ywn shw-“

Taranza rolled his eyes. He didn’t know what he was expecting. Grabbing the edge of the mask, he finally tore it off and threw it away, revealing the lowlife’s wounded face. His eyes widened a little, it wasn’t at all like Taranza had imagined. Although scarred, his grey skin was otherwise smooth and pudgy. His eyes were big, round and white, dead stars littering the pupils like a broken sky on a worn church ceiling. All around his complexity was as equally cutesy at it was brooding, as if to hand a knife to a puppy. If he didn’t know any better, it would be difficult to take seriously. The abnormal deviant blinked at the removal of his headgear, then grinned at him, opening his mouth to speak. 

“Is this the part where I say… that I d-don’t know where she is?” Dark Meta Knight chuckled half-heartedly.

Now that he could make out what the son of a bitch was saying, Taranza could finally say that he detested his voice. Any shred of sympathy left for the man bleeding out in front of him was drowned out in the cold, pure surge of hatred he willingly let himself be consumed by. He could bury that hate in a minute. 

“I don’t give a shit anymore.” Taranza started. “Whatever tears I should be shedding have dried out.”

The outlaw beneath him queued up a laugh but was promptly denied by a harsh coughing fit. “Really now?” expressed the grey orb, seemingly in genuine surprise and intrigue. “G-guess that means you’re not gonna care when I tell you how I… s-sold her off to whoever bid the highest” His fits worsened, now spitting up blood on the dry soil. But he still smirked, nonetheless. Taranza’s face didn’t change, but deep inside, the icy hate was starting to thaw from the new, boiling rage that now flared up inside him.

“Who knows… Maybe she got lucky and got to be a lady… least she’d have a bed then, even if she’d have to share-“

His taunting was cut short by another shot, immediately followed by a new, much more searing pain that rushed through his body. He screamed, overwhelmed by the sheer agony from the new absence of his gonad. “YOU F@%#ER!” His agents, Jay, Dee and Enn had hightailed it out of there and was now nowhere in sight, much like his left testicle. The sound of the gun cocking again made the tormented orb grit his teeth, from which spit and blood seeped through.

“You sold her for a fucking cornchip, you sick piece of shit.” Taranza seethed, exposing his sharp fang as he pressed the gun to Dark Meta Knight’s cheek. “I was there. I saw who you sold her to with my very own eyes.” His voice had raised itself, no longer under his control. The soreness in his throat was returning. “I don’t know who the hell it was, but what I do know is that right now, I am your judge, your jury and your executioner, and my trigger finger is itching for justice to return to this fucking world!” He backed off from the villain and aimed low. The gun cocked. “So, tell me where I can find him, or you’ll die nutless as well as gutless.” 

Despite the pain, the bleeding orb started laughing again. Dark Meta Knight thought to himself that if this was how he was going to die, at least he was having the time of his life.

“You’re never gonna find her, kid. Just gonna be one wild goose chase after another.” He coughed out, blood running down his lips. Taranza’s eyes narrowed in disgust. Even at death’s bed the scum insisted on being a pathetic prick. The dying man looked up to the shimmering skies, smiling. The clouds were blowing to the east.

“I blew a lot of holes in this world, didn’t I?” He croaked. 

Dark Meta Knight started laughing softly, until that started to hurt too much. His breathing was slowing down, and his eyes had started to close. He knew he didn’t have much time left, but he wasn’t afraid. Embracing oblivion that awaited him, he sighed.

The third bullet was fired, killing the man in an instant. There was no echo this time. Taranza glared at the body. Like hell he was gonna let him go out on his own. Another wind blew in, snatching away the pitch-black tattered cape and blowing specks of sand and dirt on the corpse. Taranza took a deep, shaky breath, the scent of burnt gunpowder and blood invading his nostrils. Air blew harshly out of his nose. The fleeting sense of gratification he got from achieving his revenge was rapidly crumbling, leaving behind a null void that muted his heart. A year ago, he would’ve cried by now. But now nothing came. With his nemesis gone, he had no clue what his next step would be, now that no one was left in his story. He was now, once again, alone. 

A voice called out to him.

“The man he was talkin’ ‘bout calls himself “Dark Mind.”

Taranza turned his head and looked over his shoulder. Approaching him was a scruffy looking man, sporting a wide hat and one hell of a mustache. 

“Bookem. Sheriff of this here town.” The man extended a hand to greet him. He shook it with his free hand. 

“You know about him then?”

Bookem grunted affirmably. “Matter of fact, I’ve dealt with ‘im before, and his kind ‘a dealers.” He gestured towards the dead body. “Kid, you did the world a favor by riddin’ it of ‘im. Least I can do is returnin’ that favor.”

Bookem took a few steps away, then turned towards the desert to the right of them. He pointed.

“Way on the other side of this here desert is a lil’ border oasis called “Fata Morgana.” The man you’re lookin’ for is there at the moment, sorta like his base of operations or somthin’.”

Taranza looked towards the ground. The blood had reached where he was standing, coating the brown dirt with red hues. Looking up again, he gazed at the setting sun, peeking out from the golden horizon. Warmth was leaving him again.

“I take it it’s west from here?” He asked.

The sheriff nodded. “Can’t miss it.”

The silver haired spider sighed, twirling his gun on his index finger before sheathing it in its holster underneath his embroidered poncho. It was easy to miss, but Bookem briefly caught glimpse of the six holstered pistols that hung from the victors’ belt. The young man had in fact been packing. With his gaze still pointed down at the imprints of metal boots in the sand, Taranza now made his way back to the saloon from whence he came. Perhaps there was still a spare room for rent, now that he could finally allow himself to rest a little. Going up the small stairs, he made a mental note to be more gentle with the swing door. 

He stopped. Bookem was yelling something at him. 

“There’s a reward for those guys! Cashes in at ‘round a hundred thousand!”

Taranza thought about it. It would be easy to restart life with that kind of money, after all of this blew over. He sighed. If all of this blew over. 

“…I’ll seek you out once I’ve settled my score. Until then…” 

He turned his head and gazed over his shoulder, locking eye to eye with Bookem in an intense glare. 

“…Keep tabs on the wanted posters. I plan on bringing ‘em back dead.”

He had made progress today, progress after a grueling year of traversing under the sun, freezing under the moon and shooting whatever tried to shoot him. All to see her again, all to get her back. He was hoping she could still smile, otherwise his own might never see the light of day again.   
He shrugged and went inside. He had a jug of water to finish.


End file.
